Cozen
by cassynite
Summary: Once, Heroes were the lifeblood of Skaia, protecting and nourishing the land even as they played small parts in the Game. But now, the Heroes are gone, and Lord of Time rules as the land withers. That is, until a Rogue thought long-dead reappears and a simple farmhand becomes the first Hero in decades to be born, and the rules change yet again. Eventual Gamtav.
1. Prologue

**A/N: I don't usually write fanfiction, but I've been working on this for a while and really want to show the world (aka approximately three people who will read this). The first few chapters might seem confusing (I haven't done this in a long time so I can't be sure), but everything should be explained in the next few chapters, so bear with me. :)**

**Disclaimer: ****Homestuck is own and written by Andrew Hussie. This is just a fanwork, and gain absolutely nothing but minimal satisfaction from writing this.**

* * *

**Prologue**

_ He won._

The mere thought galls you beyond belief—not necessarily because he won, as that is a necessary evil and something you endure every now and then so the nature of your game never tips too far out of balance, but because he _cheated._ Cheated in such a brazen, disgusting way, that you can _feel _whatever semblance of order in your game disintegrate every moment he sits in the room in front of you, seen by all, laughing at his victory.

You are not seen. You stand bitter and alone in a darkened black hall, a ghost that has even less power than usual, helplessly watching your opponent crow over his illegally-gotten winnings. He sees you, you are sure, as his eyes will occasionally flick over to you and his disgusting smile will grow even wider.

You want to destroy him, as you always have. The feeling is mutual. However, unlike him, you are aware of the severe consequences his absence will bring on the universe, and are hesitant to bring about such chaos. He has no such compunctions; if you do not find a safe hiding place soon, he will kill you, and the land you stand on will die even faster under his hand.

The Void, perhaps. Many of your chess pieces hid there, to either escape your opponent's merciless hand or to avoid becoming one of his own pawns, and you know the creature on the throne cannot follow you there. If you leave now, he might not even notice your absence until it's too late to put up too much of a chase.

Just as you think that, however, the new ruler of the land of Skaia turns to you and gives you a smile that's all teeth, stroking his hand on the throne he had crafted from the bones of your Heroes. In that second, your anger overcomes your need of survival—_you need to beat him._ You should have beat him in this game, but because he is a dirty liar and a scoundrel and _chaos_ he cheated and left you in the dust, possibly forever this time. His claim on the trophy—on Skaia—is so strong, it would take a miracle to beat him before the land withered and died in his grasp.

That is, if you play by the rules. The idea of cheating is repugnant to you, but you know that if you ever want a foothold in your game ever again, you will need to employ some underhanded methods to get your way.

Still, that doesn't necessarily mean you can't play by the rules—you can't _not,_ because while your opponent may be able to cross any boundaries he chooses you are a creature of order—but that doesn't mean you can't…stretch your limitations.

Inspiration taking hold of you, you spirit away while your adversary drinks and dines, content in his win.

The game is not over, not quite yet.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm not sure if this is obvious, but now that we move on to the actual chapters the perspective has switched from our (not-so) mysterious prologue narrator to the actual protagonist, Tavros. Enjoy :)**

**Disclaimer: ****Blah blah Andrew Hussie blah blah Homestuck blah blah do not own.**

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_From your slanted views  
See the morning dew  
Sink into the soil  
Watch the water boil  
They can't see me run  
Who can blame them?  
They never looked to see me fly  
So I never had to lie_

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**Chapter One**

It is the first day in the Month of Hope—the first day of tax season.

You are tending to a wild goat in the town square when you hear the news. In all honesty, you are not surprised to hear there is news at all; the day is charged and waiting for something big and horrible to happen, and everybody is either in their homes or obviously on edge.

"I'd hide if I were you." You look up to see Mad Mag glaring at you with her one eye. When you have nice enough wool sheared from the wild ewes that travel in the fields outside your village, she'll sometimes give you cooked meat that lasts for more than a day. It's almost enough to make up for her general nastiness in all other aspects.

You say nothing in response, knowing from experience that if you just stay silent she'll reveal all the information you need to know. And, true to form, she does.

"Haven't you heard? The Bard's comin'!"

"He's early this year," you comment, your focus more on removing the goat's ear mites than the conversation. Mad Mag spun tall tales like you could spin wool, and often exaggerated simple facts. However, she never lied. "Doesn't he usually come closer to the Month of Life?"

"Not anymore. This one's new."

"W-what?" You swallow down your thrice-damned stutter and give Mag your full attention. "What happened…what happened to the last one?"

You don't like the Bard that came through your village the previous years, but then it is rare for anyone to like a Bard. They are crude, nasty and destructive, and if a village can't pay their yearly tax to the Lord, a Bard will take much enjoyment in making sure that village doesn't exist anymore. It's a constant fear for everyone come tax season, but your home has always felt the imminent destruction even more keenly with their barren fields continually providing less than the Lord expects from it.

However, your village knows the old Bard, knows his likes and dislikes and just how to grease his palms so he looks the other way to the village's less-than-satisfactory yearly yield. A new Bard means new rules, new bribes, and possibly destruction.

Mag shrugs. "Who knows? Perhaps he grew tired of overseein' our meager province," she says, spitting on the ground. "Good riddance, I'd say in a diff'rent situation, but this one's supposed ta be even worse—they say he might be the Bard of Rage!"

"That's r-ridiculous," you scoff, forcing your attention back to the squirming goat. There wasn't much you could do about a new Bard, and you'll be damned if you start panicking because of it—you're sure that's why Mag is throwing her gift of hyperbole at you. Unfortunately, your stutter still manages to slip out, and you find your hands shaking next to your squirming charge's rough fur. "The Bard of Rage o-only goes to the Eastern Cities. We're much t-too small to get that kind of…kind of attention."

"I'm hidin'," Mag tells you. "Just tryin' to warn ya. You don't wanna listen, fine. But he'll be here soon, I feel it in ma bones. And then…" She draws her finger across her throat. "Everyone still here'll end up dyin'." With that, she trundles off, and you can just hear her stop the next person in the street to tell them to hide, too. You refuse to consider the thought that she might be accurate in her predictions.

However, as the hours pass by and you finish tending to the goat, and Mag continues to pester any person who will stay still long enough to listen, you feel your skin grow tight with fear. You swallow it down, refusing to make a scene—everyone knows you scare easily, frighten badly, and are the first to run in signs of trouble. But when you stay calm, so does everyone else.

"P-people these days," you whisper, trying to calm your fluttering heart, which has been slowly escalating its rhythm over the course of the morning. "They'll believe anything they hear, won't they?" The goat senses your unease and starts to bleat, and you rub the animal's ears to soothe it.

Your mutterings are cut off when you hear a girl scream near the edge of town. Jumping, you yelp a little too, and start running toward the sound, leaving the goat to go its own way. Most passerby are already ahead of you, but you can see some people you know run in the opposite direction.

By the time you get there, there is already a small crowd around the still-screaming girl, all staring silently into the distance. None of them try to calm the little one down—one of the baker's six girls, you can see now—and you pat her on her head in an effort to quiet her before looking in their direction. You see the figure they are staring at coming closer and feel like screaming too.

Even from a distance, he is tall and imposing. He moves slowly, easily, as if he has all the time in the world, but the rich purple fabric he wears identifies him long before you see his face—he is a Hero of Rage, and everyone knows the only Heroes allowed to roam freely are the Bards.

The Sword of Rage. The Lord's right hand man and agent of destruction. Your village's new Bard. _There must be a mistake._

Mad Mag finds her way to you and mutters, "Don't say I didn't warn ya," before disappearing back into the village. You wonder where she thinks she can hide where the Bard can't find her and kill her for trying to evade her tithe to the Lord. Running and hiding seems pointless, so you stay with the crowd and wait for your possible doom to arrive.

-x-

When the Bard reaches the village, the crowd parts for him silently, a wary and reluctant welcome he takes without a word. He walks a bare foot away from you, and as he passes his heard turns and he meets you in the eye. Afraid to do anything else you keep the eye contact and try to slow your beating heart.

He looks young, just a few years older than you, but that means absolutely nothing—Heroes are ageless, and the Bard can be a few decades or a few centuries older than you. Your last Bard was like that too, but he didn't have hair the color of ripe wheat framing a perfectly symmetrical face—marred only by three diagonal scars stretching across his nose and over his eye—or strangely deep violet eyes that burned into you. You can't seem to look away, and you feel heat rise up to your face.

The contact only lasts a few seconds, but it feels much longer to you, and it ends with the Bard's lips curling up in a faint smirk before he turns away. You take a much deeper breath than necessary as he continues on, your heart thundering up your throat. Still, you follow him with the crowd as he continues into the town.

The Bard is almost to the town square when someone remembers it might be good to introduce themselves, and people push forward Tarrit Miller, the self-elected leader of the village and the wealthy-by-dirt-poor-standards blacksmith. Stumbling, you watch him hesitantly catch up with the Bard's easy strides.

"Sir, I am Tarrit Miller and we welcome to you—we welcome _you to_ our humble village. Santha's Pub is just this way, I'm sure you're very hungry and would like to eat before we discuss taxes—"

"Actually, I'm not all that hungry," he cuts off Miller, effectively ruining any chance of bribing or inebriating the tax collector. His voice is disturbingly soft, not angry or rough like you would expect a Hero of Rage to sound like.

"Well, perhaps my family can offer you room at our house for the night, I am sure you are tired—"

"I would just like to collect what is due to the Lord of Time and be on my way," the Bard cuts off Miller again, his words slow and annunciated as if he is speaking to a child. His voice is level but there's something stirring underneath it, and whatever it was quieted Miller's attempts to soften the town's new Bard.

"I—yes, of course, if you just give us a few days to gather our supplies together, our old Bard usually came later in the year than this and we had more time to prepare—"

"Law requires you to be prepared to give your compensation for taxes by this time of year. Your former Bard's incompetency does not excuse this."

"Ah…ah. Well, then. I…we…I better get to it, then." He turns to the crowd. "Anyone want to help me show the Bard our yield?"

It's a plea for help, and you all know it, but you sincerely doubt anyone will come to his rescue. You know you won't. You're thinking what everyone's thinking—the farmers have barely begun their harvests, and even if they were finished everyone knows this year's bounty will be much worse than usual. The village could give everything they reaped and starve come winter, but it would still not be enough to pay what the Lord demands.

It wasn't always like this, or so you have been told. Long before you were born, before the Lord came into this land and subjugated everyone to his will and Heroes still brought triumph and light to the world, this town had been prosperous for its size. However, the time of decent harvests and payable taxes are long gone, along with the ages of Heroes.

The last Bard was weak, easily swayed by drink and women to fudge a few numbers and leave in peace, but you can hardly imagine this coldly beautiful man doing the same. It's very easy to imagine him wearing that easy smirk as he burns the whole place down with you all trapped inside.

As if he hears your thoughts, the Bard turns and, after a second, gives you another one if his secretive smiles, softer around the edges this time. You don't even realize you've started backing away until you bump into someone behind you. If you had something to hide behind, you would.

His eyes are still on you. "Perhaps you can assist," he says, the smile turning into a challenge. You shrink from it and from him, and to no one's surprise Miller jumps at the opportunity to throw you into the fire—he's always hated you.

"Tavros? Yes, he can help. He's just an orphan boy, scared of his own shadow and dumb as a rock, but I'm sure he can carry…" Miller's voice fades, and you can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

Nothing about the Bard's expression changes, but as he turns back to Miller the air around everyone changes so slightly you barely notice it. Subtle as it is, it's enough to make you shiver in fear and for Miller to bow his head and back away from the Bard.

His eyes find you again, dismissing Miller so thoroughly you'd feel slightly insulted for him if you weren't trying not to throw up in terror. "Well? Are you coming or not?"

You don't have a choice. Hesitantly, you move forward until you are only a little behind Miller, and the crowd takes the opportunity to escape back to their homes like roaches fleeing from the light—to pack their things in an effort to escape if they are stupid and hopeful, or to say goodbye to their loved ones if they are smart and disillusioned. Ignoring the fleeing onlookers, the Bard says, "What are we waiting for? Take me to your storehouse."

Miller immediately jumps ahead and you attempt to scurry after him, but somehow you end up walking side by side with the Bard. You both walk down the now-deserted street just fast enough to keep Miller in sight for several minutes before the Bard asks, "Tavros, is it?"

"Um…y-yes." The Bard's voice is still soft, almost relaxing, but the icy feeling he had emanated just a few moments ago keeps you on edge.

He glances at you again, and you see nothing malevolent in his gaze. "Little poet, huh? Interesting."

"E-excuse me?"

"Your name," he clarifies, a small smile lifting his lips again. "It means 'little poet' in the old language. Your mother must have been a smart woman to know of such things."

You feel heat creep up the back of your neck and you rub it repeatedly in an effort to hide it. You're sure glad Miller is out of earshot—he'd likely have something nasty to say about your mother.

"Um…maybe. I g-guess. I didn't ask her. She died five years ago." You realize you're rambling and shut your mouth.

"Five years ago? How old are you?"

"Uh…" you swallow. "Seven…"

"Rather tall for seven."

"…teen. Seventeen."

"Oh." He laughs, the sound so good-natured you almost forget for an instant that he's here to destroy your town. "You're rather small for seventeen then, aren't you? Can't find a happy medium."

You _feel_ small, especially standing next to this giant of a man—he easily outstrips even the tallest man in your village by a handspan or more. "I-I guess I'm just unlucky."

He laughs again, and you feel yourself relaxing against your will. How can someone so dangerous suddenly be so likeable? "Then you've been on your own since you were…what? Twelve?"

"Thereabouts," you murmur. Birthdays are hard to track—'seventeen' is only an approximate amount since you don't know when you were born.

"Must have been hardful—hard," the Bard shakes his head briefly, but you're too busy trying not to anger the man at your side to think too long on his words.

"W-well, a little," you admit, "but my animals helped me out when they could."

"Your animals?" He glances down at you and you flush, realizing how stupid you sounded—talking about the wild animals as if they were sentient and willingly helped you.

"Y-Yeah, I mean…there are lots of wild goats around here, and they give good milk, so I take care of them and sell what they give…a-and there are some other animals too. I survived off of them for a long time."

"You're a herdsman," he says.

"Uh…I guess." 'Herdsman' is probably an inaccurate term, but you certainly aren't going to correct him. "I just…take c-care of ones that need it, for as long as they need it. And then I get something back in return."

You're rambling again, and shut your mouth with a definitive 'click' that vibrates your jaw. The Bard, just a few minutes ago the most terrifying thing you'd ever come across, now smiles genially at you and your ridiculous babbling and you feel yourself relaxing all over again.

"Did you ever take care of anything interesting?"

"Oh, yes!" You smile without meaning to, remembering some of the wild creatures you've cared for. "Rabbits, elk, a few birds…I even managed to care for Mythosetes every now and then." You say the last part proudly.

"Those are rare," he comments, giving just the reaction you hoped for. "Most magical creatures are all gone from the East these days—I haven't up and spotted on in a long time. What kinds have you seen?"

"I found a dragon hatchling once and cared for it until its mother came back—" that had been slightly terrifying, especially when you had to face a huge brooding mother looking for its young, but you don't mention that part, "—and I've helped a Nakkadile brood a few times when they migrate around here. They're not as uncommon around these parts, for some reason."

"That's very brave of you," he tells you, and you feel heat rush to your face. You can't remember the last time someone paid you a compliment. "To see even one Mythos in your life is a rarity. But you've not only seen more than one, you've helped them!"

"Yeah." You duck you head, trying to hide your smile of pride in case it offended him. "I guess…I mean, animals just like me."

He laughs, and is still laughing when you realize you've caught up with Miller in front of the storehouse. He shoots you an incredulous glance, and you try to shrink away from his gaze. You don't know why the Bard is being so nice to you, and you don't want to try and explain it to Miller either.

Taking a deep breath for support, you turn to the storehouse with dread in your stomach. In times before, the large shed was used to store provisions for the winter, but now it's only ever filled before taxing season, and even then it's not very full at all.

"Well, let's see it." The kind stranger you walked beside is gone, replaced again with the terrifying Bard, and you can feel that in the air all around you.

With shaking hands, Miller opens the door and peeks inside, as if the storehouse had magically filled since the village had last put provisions in there. You see his shoulders droop, and you start to back away from the impending explosion.

When Miller says nothing, the Bard pushes him out of the way and walks inside the shed, coming out seconds later with a stony expression. "There's barely anything in there."

"Like I said before, the Bard usually comes later than—_ack!"_ You gasp when the Bard's hand shoot out and grips Miller around his throat. In seconds, his red face begins to turn blue.

"Did I not already tell you THAT MOTHERFUCKING DON'T EXCUSE YOU?" The Bard's voice deepens and vibrates around you, and you have to force yourself not to flee from the anger. Instead you only skitter back a few steps and shake so hard your teeth begin to clack against each other.

"Haaaugh…" Miller's face is turning purple, his hands uselessly clawing the hand cutting off his air, and you realize the Bard will kill him without a second thought. You might not like Miller, but he didn't deserve to die, and you are quite sure you will faint if you have to watch a man asphyxiate in front of you.

"We can't p-pay the tax!" You burst out. You almost immediately regret drawing attention to yourself when he lets go of Miller and turns to you.

"That's rather obvious, little poet," the Bard tells you, his attention completely focused on your face and disregarding the man hacking and wheezing next to his boots. The anger is gone as quickly as it appeared, sucked back into him like a vacuum. "Are you aware of the law? Each village must be paying the tax the Lord determines for them or they no longer have the right to exist."

"It's too high," you whisper, shaking from head to toe. You duck your head as you continue—you can't look anyone in the eye when you tell the truth. "It's always been t-too high. We've never been able to pay it—our harvests barely sustain us, we couldn't afford to pay the tax even if we gave every last scrap of wealth we had to you. The last…the last Bard, he would take…other things. Special favors…other things. Whatever we had, and if it was enough to satisfy him he'd—I guess he lied, I don't know, but he d-didn't kill us."

The Bard says nothing, and it occurs to you that this would probably be the time he starts to raze the place and kill you all—whatever his strange kindness to you, a Bard is never supposed to disobey the creed of the Lord. When you feel something touch your head you flinch, but it's just the Bard placing his hand on your hair. "Special favors, you say? I suppose I can accommodate with that…everyone pays in different ways, after all."

You see Miller, still on the ground, staring at you with wide eyes, and you know he's thinking the same thing that you are—the Bard has been acting awfully fond of you, and at seventeen-ish you're well aware of what 'special favors' could entail. Could he be asking you to proposition yourself? It was uncommon but not unheard of for people of power to find fondness in young boys. If that's what he wants, he'd be in for a nasty surprise.

"What…what do you want?" You lift your head in an effort to meet his eyes like you should with someone you're negotiating with, but you regret it as soon as you meet his glowing eyes.

He tilts his head, assessing you, and you prepare yourself for the worst—he kisses you, or just grabs you and drags you to the nearest house and…

"I want an animal."

"What?" You can just see Miller struggling to sit up, looking as incredulous as you feel. The Bard ignores him.

"You told me you often found Mythosetes around here."

'Often' was rather strong of a word, but you just nod.

"Creatures of magic are worth quite a bit. Find one for me by the end of the day, and I'll consider the villages taxes paid."

"The end of the day?!" you yelp out without meaning to. "That's…that's way too soon! I need a month at least!"

"You have one day." His tone doesn't change in the least, but you still cringe in expectation of the rage from before seeping out.

"I-I need a week. Just a week." Your voice is shaking. There's no way to find a rare Mythos in a few hours. There's no way for you to not fail, and if you fail the whole village will be _dead_ because of you.

If there was a hope in your heart of the kind stranger coming forth in the Bard and giving you leniency, the hooded look he gives you dashes it to the ground in a trice. "Nightfall is coming," is all he says as he releases you, and you stumble to get away when you start to feel the edge of anger in the air.

After all, you only have a few hours to save your village.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey it's another chapter! Thank you to everyone who left reviews, they were really inspiring and I'm glad you like the story enough to leave feedback. Here's chapter two!**

**Disclaimer: ****Homestuck is owned by Andrew Hussie (or is it Caliborn now?). The lyrics for last chapter (which I forgot to source whoops) are from Imagine Dragon's song, "Tiptoe." Song lyrics for this chapter are Linkin Park's "The Catalyst."**

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**Chapter Two**

_God bless us everyone,  
We're a broken people living under a loaded gun  
And it can't be outfought  
It can't be outdone  
It can't be outmatched  
It can't be outrun_

The land around your village is large and mysterious, full of rolling hills that are occasionally hollow and patches of forest much larger on the inside than they are on the outside and little ponds randomly dispersed connected together by a tiny stream. Well, those are the constant things, at least. Every now and then new patches of terrain will show up and disappear days or hours or months later. Every little place is filled with poisonous plants, potentially deadly animals, and wandering paths that strangers can easily get lost on. It is impossible to grow anything in the land that it doesn't want to grow there, and most things the land wants to grow can kill the average person.

You love it. You spent most of your childhood learning from your mother of the land's secrets, and the importance of keeping their whispers private. It was here that you found every friend you ever had and lost, and it's your own private home where no one can ridicule you and your miserable reality fades away. No one knows these hills better than you do, and you're very proud of that fact.

However, today everything you usually find harmony with is working against you. Almost immediately after running out of the village you find yourself going through a bog that must have appeared sometime in the last few hours, because it certainly wasn't there this morning. The wet, sticky mud immediately weighs you down and makes your feet sink, and in your panic to keep your speed up and _find something to save your home_ you thrash around until you fall straight into the wet soil.

"Nyuuugh," you groan, gasping and finally dragging yourself out of the puddle. You're covered from head to toe in mud, can practically feel the sun move across the sky, and have no idea where to begin looking for a Mythos.

It was past noon when the Bard first arrived—you have less than six hours to find something for the tax collector or your village is gone. You don't know how Bards destroy villages, but you've heard the stories; how some literally just disappear, the inhabitants gone just as surely as the buildings, while others seem to sink into the ground and others just crumble to dust in an instant. Trying to imagine the thatched houses blowing away in the wind with the families that live in them because of you has you curling up into a ball and crying.

A cold breeze blows through you, shaking you out of your misery and making you shiver. You almost seem to hear it whisper, _You have to try,_ and you know that it's right. You rise to your feet and start walking again, this time taking care to not trip and fall again.

You have no idea where you are—getting lost is extremely easy, especially when you stray from the main path, but you'll worry about getting back to the village when you actually have something to give the Bard. If you don't find something, well, getting back to the village will hardly be a problem.

You've always had a special affinity with animals. Feeling their wants and needs as you do your own was a talent you've always had, and you have a feeling they can feel yours as well. All animals—the magical sub-species of Mythosetes included—are often drawn to you, and with the experience you have you know they'd never show their faces to anyone they don't trust.

You, with your fear of the village being destroyed and the idea of the Bard taking a Mythos as a pet dogging you every step, are not trustworthy.

"This isn't going to work." Your voice echoes off the tall trees, and of course no one responds, nothing magically happens that changes your situation. So you still keep moving, leaving the muddy bog behind and wandering aimlessly through the shifting terrain. You move from empty meadow to silent forest to dead grassy brush and back for so long you can't even feel time slip away for your village.

The sun is beginning its dip behind the trees when you hear something rustle nearby, making you jump. The forest is silent for several seconds before you hear the rustling again, and you turn to see a small brush, its arms rustling together as something attempts to hide behind its leaves. You almost decide to just leave it—you can't imagine it being anything the Bard would want, considering how rare it is to find a Mythos even on a normal day—but it's almost dusk and you _have to try._

As you tiptoe closer, a small figure zooms out of the branches, its translucent wings buzzing constantly to keep its tiny calf-like body afloat. Its wide eyes take you in for a single second before it flits away into the trees. You stare for a few more seconds at the empty air where the creature was before you break into a run after it, berating yourself the whole way. _Stupid, slow, tiny imbecile_—can't even move when the miracle of miracles appears _right in front of you_—no, you just have to let it fly away!

Of course, you never thought you'd actually see a Mythos, and in your wildest dreams you couldn't imagine coming across a Mythos like that—you've never seen the like, but you recognize it from descriptions you heard whispered at dusk, memories of old men parting their tales to children gathered for a story.

The Mythos escaping through the trees is the White Cyprus, a bull with dragonfly wings, a companion of Heroes and an omen of good things to come. It disappeared entirely with the Lord's ascension with no sighting in decades, and everyone had assumed it extinct. That is, until now. Of course your phenomenal luck has to be tempered with your general idiocy.

You still can't quite believe a White Cyprus is in front of you, barely in your eyesight as it flits through the trees, you crashing after it. _It shouldn't even exist—the Bard will have to be happy with a Mythos as rare as a Cyprus—oh please let me catch it—_

Suddenly the rows of trees end and you are stumbling out into an open field, the grass under your feet short and pricking into the bare soles. A small crag lies in front of you, one you've never seen before but the Cyprus seems to know very well as it's heading right toward it. Quickly, you make to move after it, ignoring the slight pain the grass inflicts on your feet—you walk over worse all the time.

The grass fades away to rough brown stone as you head closer to the pile of sandstone, and soon you have to watch where you step so as not to impale your foot on a sharp piece of rock. You can barely keep the Cyprus's white body in your sights as it flits through the rubble and to your surprise you see it disappear into a medium-sized opening that dips into darkness—you didn't think Cypruses would like caves.

_You_ don't like caves. They're too dark, with no way to figure out where you're going. You've heard stories about people getting lost in the dark tunnels and never seeing the light of day again. The desire to turn around and give up is strong, but you fight it, thinking about the deaths on your head if you give up now. After a few deep breaths, you head into the darkness after the creature.

As you move forward, it quickly becomes too dark to see and you end up using your hands to keep yourself steady. You count the number of footsteps you hear echo in the cave to keep your mind off the thought of getting lost here forever. Your feet constantly find snags in the ground to trip over, and you nearly trip several times before you hear a distinct fluttering of wings.

The Cyprus! "Come here, little one," you croon, your quiet voice echoing off the stone walls. You step forward, reaching out one hand while keeping the other against the wall as you move forward. "I promise not to hurt you, I just really need you, please…aah!" The wall under your hand disappears as you take another step forward, and you stumble into the cavern with nothing to guide your way.

You fall on your face in less than a second. The ground beneath your cheek is strangely smooth, as if it were paved, and when you stretch you hand you can feel a thick weave underneath your fingers. Is this…a carpet? You wonder if someone had already found the Cyprus and made a little nest for it.

"_Brruuuuu!"_ Something touches your forehead, and you feel the Cyprus's rapid little breaths on your skin. Suddenly, small orbs of light appear in front of you and all around you, starting close to the Cyprus and then scattering throughout the room, clinging to the high ceiling of what you are quickly realizing is a tomb.

The carpet is not the only decoration in the large cavern you just fell into. You stand cautiously, and as you slowly turn, you can see strange paintings adorning the walls, exquisitely detailed but faded with time. You see a man with a rust-red sword fighting what looks like a large dragon wrapped around a tower, a woman in pink robes holding a bright circle with waves inside, a ship bearing passengers staring into the rising (or setting) sun, and others either smudged or covered with the thick woven fabric draping from the ceiling. You recognize none of the people or the events depicted, and you wonder at their stories before your attention focuses on the physical objects in the room.

Small items are collected around the edges of the room, piles of delicately sculpted vases and jars and bags of what you can tell by smell are various spices and other small trinkets you don't even recognize. The orbs of light cast a glinting shine on something in the corner; you think it may be coin of some sort, but you are too distracted by the piece in the center of the room to really go and look.

It's a bed. You think it is, at least—the only beds you've ever seen are the straw-stuffed canvas bags you sleep on during the Dark Season when someone in the town has room to spare. This towering sculpture, with its dark wood frame and spires extending to the ceiling all surrounding a smooth slab of soft-looking fabric, looks nothing like a bed you've ever seen. But with the body lying in the center of the soft fabric sea before you surrounded by pillows, you can only assume it's meant to be a resting place.

The Cyprus flits around the room for a few seconds before finding its way to the bed and settling next to the body, its wings stilling. You don't want to go near the slumbering (the dead? He may be dead, in fact he's probably dead) stranger, but you can practically _feel_ the sun going down above you and you know your town depends on you catching that little flying bull. So, slowly, you tiptoe across the carpeted floor and reach your hand out to the Cyprus. "Here little one, come here," you whisper, "I won't hurt you…"

As you get closer and get a better look at the person on the bed, you realize several things—one, the stranger is not a man as you had originally assumed, but a woman looking only a little older than you; two, she is too still to be sleeping but does not smell or look as a corpse might; and three, that whoever she is (was?), she is very rich—the red-tinted clothes she wears are musty looking but still finer than anything you've ever seen on most anyone.

The Cyprus still hasn't moved when you reach the side of the bed. Slowly, carefully, you scoop up the small creature, and it lets you cradle it in your arms without a fight. While picking it up, your hand brushes the wrist of the woman, and you can feel her skin—not warm, but not corpse-cold either, just a lukewarm temperature the same as the air around you. Maybe, you think as you turn and head for the exit, after all this is over and done with, you'll come back here and see if you can figure out what, exactly, is going on with this room…

"Where are you going?"

You shriek and stumble, the Cyprus flying out of your arms before you fall to the ground again. Hurriedly you pick yourself up and turn to see the woman, no longer too-still-sleeping but sitting up and staring at you with luminescent green eyes. With her faded red hair curling wild and untamed around her thin face and an inscrutable expression, she looks like a cat waiting for the right moment to pounce.

"I-I-I-uh, um…" More incomprehensible sounds exit your mouth, and you swallow hard to silence any more trying to crawl out. _She's an Enchanted you idiot, how did you not realize she was an Enchanted,_ your crazed mind bleats, and you try to calm yourself—Enchanted people often are beacons for trouble and misfortune, but they are rarely violent themselves.

Still, some are, and the intense look the woman is giving you makes her seem as if she's ready to kill you for breaking some unknown rule of hers. Breathing in deeply, you blurt out the first thing that comes to your mind. "I d-didn't steal anything, I-I swear."

Slanted eyebrows fly high on her brow, and the young woman looks around the room as if she has never seen it before. "Oh. This stuff. Don't worry, none of the things are actually mine—my sister gave it to me for some reason I still haven't figured out. You can take some of it, if you like." She smiles, the effect completely softening the planes of her face and giving her a strange unearthly attractiveness you can barely comprehend.

"I…no, thank you." The Cyprus, thankfully, is still close, and you try to casually grab at it again without arising the stranger's suspicion.

"Understandable. Most of this stuff is useless, anyway." Her attention is captured by the wall paintings, and she smiles. "Oh, that's nice! She remembered to save my old drawings. How thoughtful of her." She turns back to you. "How is she, by the way?"

"I…who?"

"My sister of course!" At your obvious confusion, her own brow furrows. "She _did_ send you, didn't she?"

You shake your head.

"That's strange." She rises from the bed, stretching languidly as if rising from a tiny nap instead of a however-many-years-sleep she was Enchanted into. "She's the only person that knew I was going to Sleep." The way she says it implies the Capital Letter—definitely an Enchanted, though you can't imagine how she woke up without a spell-breaking kiss. "How did you find me?"

"I…I just followed the, um." You point to the Cyprus still flitting in and out of your reach. "It's really rare. I thought it was extinct." _Babbling. Stop._

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as if she's really looking at you for the first time. You shift uncomfortably. "Really? Where are you from?"

"Taurias."

"Are you sure about that? Cyprusi are pretty common there…or they were when I was last awake. What year is it?"

"It is the eighty-second year of the Lord of Time's reign," you say, parroting what Miller always bellows when he speaks of time and issues outside your town.

"The Lord of _what?_"

You stare at her. "You don't know the Lord?" He is all you've known; you were born long after he took control, and while you are aware there was a time before he took the throne you've never heard anyone speak openly of it. This woman who looks so confused suddenly seems even more dangerous.

She shakes her head, smiling incredulously. "I've heard of such a title, but no mortal being should be taking that name."

You instinctively flinch—that sounded like treason. "W-Well, he did a-and I don't think anyone who's raised objections…um, has lived very long."

She frowns. "That's ridiculous. Even Princes have to follow the Hero's Code, and they're _supposed_ to be the destructive forces in charge!"

Very, very treasonous talk. Even though you know you're alone you instinctively look around to make sure no one overheard that.

_Enchanted. Dangerous. _Your hands finally find the Cyprus, and you curl it up next to your chest with surprisingly little trouble. Your mission accomplished, you turn back to the Enchanted, very strange woman. "I'm sorry, I really h-have to go…" you back away as you talk.

"Wait!" You stop at her command, but only because of reflexes ingrained in you to obey rather than fight. "Can you accompany me to your town, young man? I'll need some supplies before I find my sister and beat her up for letting me rot away in here."

"I-I…" you need a way out of this. The last thing you need is more bad luck. "I don't even know you. I'm not allowed to help strangers."

The lie is awkward on your tongue, but you look young and innocent enough that the woman doesn't even question it. "Oh, dear we don't even know each other's names! I'm sorry—I completely forgot to introduce myself." With a flourishing bow, she grandly stated, "I am Nepeta Leijon—the Rogue of Heart."

You stare at her. Not Enchanted. A Hero. A _Rogue._

You turn around and run as fast as you can out of the cave.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading the chapter! Just so you know, the next chapter might be a little slow in coming, considering that college just started for me and I'm still trying to get my bearings. I think I'll have it up sometime in the next two weeks, but you know what they say about the best of plans.**

**If you like this, please leave feedback! I love to read what you guys think. Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the update being later than anticipated; I ended up writing this in between three different essays, which was not fun (the essays, I mean). But the wait is over-here's chapter 3!**

**Disclaimer:**** I don't see myself killing off every single character in the story (yet), so I have to assume I'm not Andrew Hussie. The lyrics below are from a One Republic song. I can't remember what that song is called, however, because the small section of lyrics below are literally the only thing I like about it.**

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**Chapter Three**

_Old, but I'm not that old  
Young, but I'm not that bold  
I don't think the world is sold  
I'm just doing what we're told_

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Rogues, like Cyprusi, are supposed to be extinct. Unlike the animal in your arms you're running with, however, the disappearance of Rogues from the land was calculated and very brutal.

You don't know much about Heroes—talk of them is frowned upon severely—but from the old tales you know that Heroes were once just that, heroes who protected the land from dark outside forces. But that's just putting things as simply as possible.

There was other information that made things complicated, but the main point was that there were different Classes of Heroes, and Aspects, too, but you don't know much about either of them. You do know that the Class of Hero determines what a Hero is strong at and what they're not strong at; it helps them find their path, their place in the great scheme of things and the purpose in the great adventure that is life.

There are many Classes; Knights and Maids and of course Bards and others, but you never heard enough about them to really know what they were meant for. Rogues, though—you know what a Rogue is, everyone does. Rogues were once teachers to fledgling Heroes, companions who saw the potential in any normal child and chose to mentor them, nurturing the spark inside them and bringing forth the true Hero they were meant to be. Some Classes could teach others of their own, but only Rogues could see the potential in normal people, and as such were once revered by the common folk and Heroes alike.

That all changed when the Lord took over, his armies of shadows destroying any resistance the people attempted. Many Heroes died in the takeover, and when he forcibly took the throne he banned any new Heroes from being realized—making Rogues irrelevant at best, and dangerous at worst. Any Hero who gave their allegiance to the Lord was spared, but Rogues were killed regardless of what they did or didn't do. The last Rogue was shot down before you were even born, but you still remember the stories of how the remaining Rogues were hunted down like rabid dogs and put down with as much mercy.

You can't imagine what this hidden Rogue uncovered could do.

The woman isn't following you, so you slow your dash into a quick trot to keep the Cyprus in your arms happy. Thankfully, the sun is only just beginning to set; your time in the cave felt much longer than it actually was. You should make it back to the village in time if you keep your pace. A bright bubble of happiness fills you at the thought of returning. You actually did it—you saved them all!

Then the sleeping woman fills your thoughts, and the bubble bursts. By solving one of your problems, a slew of others have appeared—with a Rogue magically reappearing after eight decades of extinction, trouble is sure to follow, and the Bard might just destroy your village out of principle after someone finds out.

_No one's going to find out,_ you think to yourself sternly. _If the Rogue is stupid enough to reveal herself to someone who will report her to the Lord, well, that's not my business._

You immediately feel guilty for the thought—it was obvious from the few minutes you spent speaking to her that she has been Sleeping for quite a long time. She'll be confused, and lost, and won't have an idea of how to react to the changes that took place after the Lord took the crown, which you are sure are many and drastic.

You mull over the Rogue and your surreal day the rest of the way home—thankfully, the path back makes itself clear and easy to follow, and it takes much less time to find your town than it took to find the cave. The sun is just disappearing behind the horizon when the village comes into sight.

There is a crowd waiting at the edge, the hunched figures of the people you grew up around watching you with wide eyes. You can see Mad Mag there (whose escape attempt obviously failed), and Miller as well looking a little tattered from his encounter with the Bard. The Bard himself is at the front of them all, and as you come closer you can see he is smiling at you—time will tell if the smile is that of the violent tax collector's or the friendly man you walked with this afternoon.

Once you are in earshot, the Bard calls, "Looks like dusk has arrived. Have you found anything?"

The Cyprus feels fragile in your arms, and you're not sure if it is shaking or you are—once you came in sight of the Bard, the tiny Mythos finally began to struggle, and you now have to tighten your grip to keep it from slipping away. "I-I have." You tread closer, keeping the Cyprus close against you as it starts struggling even more. If it keeps up you might end up hurting the poor thing.

The Bard's eyebrows rise and his mouth splits open into a wide grin. He laughs, the peals louder than ever in the silence. "I ask you to find a Mythos, and you go find an extinct animal!"

He reaches forward as if to grab the Cyprus or pet it and it flinches into you, still struggling. You feel sorry, for a second—it'll likely face a life of imprisonment back East, to be ogled and gawked at as the last of its kind—or worse, be killed and used for its fur or teeth or some other ridiculous thing.

Of course, if you don't give the Cyprus to the Bard, your village will be destroyed and the countless people living there will be killed. Your arms tighten around the flying bull, the sudden fear coming from both the Mythos and yourself crippling you.

You hope the Bard doesn't notice, but of course he does. Smiling, he says, "Do you have a problem?"

Silently, you shake your head, and start to move forward to give him the creature. But something—a rock, the ground, your own thrice-damned foot—catches your step and you fall flat at the Bard's feet. Your arms fly out to brace yourself, and with the sudden freedom the Cyprus shoots out from under your chest and ascends into the air, quickly disappearing into the horizon.

From your view from below, you watch the crowd grow pale as a whole. Standing up as fast as possible, you try to stop your shaking and stare at the Bard, waiting for him to kill you or just turn and destroy the village.

But he does nothing, only staring at you as if waiting for you to make another move. You don't, only stare, horrified at what you had just done. What on earth had possessed you to let go of the only thing that would save your village?

Finally he turns to the village and raises his hand. Someone screams, and you can see someone trying to make a break for it wildly and failing as something blocks them from leaving the boundaries of the village. "That was," the Bard murmurs, "…unfortunate."

He almost sounds like he regrets this, but now all you can think of is your village, your home, and how it is going to be destroyed right in front of your eyes. "Wait!" Without thinking, you throw yourself at him, grabbing onto his arm like a vice. You can feel a current of power course through him and into you, shocking you.

To your surprise, he heeds your plea and lowers his arm. Turning back to you, he says, "I need payment, or I must do my duty."

_And your incompetence means there is no payment. _Your mind scrabbles around for an answer that doesn't mean the death of hundreds. "I-I can get you another Mythos," you say. "Or…or…" You trail off—the only thing you have left is yourself. You wonder what he thinks of slavery, and what he would do if you offered and he accepted.

"Or," a hand touches your shoulder and pulls you back, "I could just pay it off."

You yelp and turn to the Rogue, who gives you a calm smile. You didn't notice before that she was so small, almost shorter than you, since where you're shrinking and stammering she stands tall and assured, and when she turns to the Bard she somehow looks him in the eye. "I have a few coins stashed away—I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

He stares at her for a full second, then whispers, "Nepeta." His voice is not friendly.

_He knows her._ You shiver. _He knows she's a Rogue._

This is bad.

If she recognizes the charge of anger in the air, she doesn't show it. "Gamzee. I see you've finally grasped the basics of the English language. Good on you."

"You're dead." The Bard—you can't think of him by the name the Rogue called him—says it not as a threat but a tone of wonder. "You died a century and a half ago, everyone said so."

She shrugs. "I must not have been notified. But a hundred-fifty years? Really? That's quite a while—of course I couldn't tell with this strange new way of keeping time. Still, that's certainly enough time for you to get kicks out of terrorizing a poor village." She glances around at the muddy shacks and the hollow-eyed people. "A _very_ poor village. So here's a deal—I'll pay whatever you think they owe you, and we all walk away happy. And then you don't come back and bother them."

You let out a terrified little squeak as the power in the air amps up several notches. "I don't go on here for me. I come for my Lord."

"I…" She barks out an incredulous laugh. "Your _what?_ You mean that bogus _Lord of Time_ my charge was talking about earlier?"

"W-what was that?" you ask, but they both ignore you. The Bard's lips are curled up in a snarl, and despite the current of power filling the air the Rogue still stands tall.

"The Lord of Time is a mythical class," the Rogue says flatly, "made by people trying to intimidate others into following their ridiculous ideas out of fear. Though I can't say I'm surprised to see _you_ fall into a cult like that."

"You're having no idea what you're talking about. The Lord up and ended the age of Heroes," the Bard whispers, his voice vibrating against your skin. His words sound off to you now, and at times you can hear the halting in his words as if he's trying to figure out what to say next. "No one is needing anything for you here—you _should_ be dead and gone."

"Are you going to do something about that?" she asks, not sounding worried in the least.

For a second, he looks like he is. But then his eyes slide from her to you and for a second you think you're looking at the laughing man you walked with this morning. Then he moves back from his aggressive position. You and the rest of the town watch silently as the Bard finally says, "You said you had the tax for being paid."

"Here." Seemingly out of nowhere, the Rogue conjures up a bag you can see if filled with the glittering coins from the tomb and throws it at the Bard. Catching it with one hand, he hides the pouch in the folds of his purple cloak. "There should be more than enough there. Now you can leave these poor people alone."

"Until the next year's coming," he mutters, and you cringe. There's no way you can do this every year. The Bard's eyes find the Rogue's. "I'm not the only one who should not be up and staying along if you care in their safety so much," he says. It takes you a second to figure out what he actually means by those jumbled up words.

"Rogues…and their teaching…is not wanted any longer. I'd up and leave if I was being you, and I'd take anything else of mine with me."

"Or this 'Lord' will chase me down?"

"When he up and is finding out. But he'll do that in his own. I won't tell anyone of knowing you here."

"Thank you." She sounds surprised—you know you are.

"Don't." He frowns at her pleased expression. "I follow the one who bears the crown—this is a debt I've been needing to repay. Don't think I'll do it again."

She smile slips and for a second you see something behind the polite façade—a flash of pure hatred shines in her eyes before she nods her head and it disappears behind her mask. "Fine."

Without another word, he turns and leaves, his form fading right in front of your eyes. The power he left behind lingers for an extra moment before it, too, fades.

The villagers are silent for an instant. Then, a child cautiously steps over the border of the village, and when they realize they can finally leave—the danger has passed—the people rush forward to surround you and the Rogue, their arms coming forward to pull you close and their cheers deafening your ears.

"We're saved—"

"Thank the Muse, hallelujah!"

"—might even survive the winter—"

"Good riddance to that Bard!"

After they calm down a tad, Miller steps forward and gives the Rogue a two-fingered salute stretching from his heart to the air—a sign of extreme respect. "Thank you," he tells her, that same hand reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Our lives are in your debt—if it weren't for you, the boy's stupidity would have killed us all."

She gives Miller a half-smile, but you notice that her eyes are stones as she stares at him. "You should probably thank the boy anyway, since he was the one who Woke me."

You don't want any part of these shenanigans. "T-that's not true," you argue, your voice coming out a little too loud. Quieting, you say, "You woke yourself up. I didn't do anything. I was just trying to find the…the Cyprus." The Cyprus that disappeared as soon as you let it go for a second. Briefly, you wonder where it is, feeling strangely melancholy at its disappearance.

"Don't sell yourself short, kid." The Rogue pats your head in a strangely familiar gesture, and you hunch your shoulders. The crowd finally begins to thin out, people gratefully returning to their homes to plan for tomorrow—something they hadn't thought would come for them. Now that the high of relief is gone, everyone is tired, including you.

Clapping his hand on her shoulder, Tarrit says, "Let's get you to Santha's. I'm sure we can get you something to eat before you go on your way—you are, of course, leaving, right?" He laughs, but it's a nervous laugh, and you know he's just as scared of what a Rogue means as you are.

The Rogue shakes her head and smiles politely. "There's no need for that," she murmurs distractedly. Her hand is still on your head. "We need to get going anyway—I trust that Bard about as much as I can kill him, which unfortunately I haven't been able to accomplish. And the farther away from this 'Lord,' the better."

Tarrit's false smile disappears. "What do you mean by 'we?'" he asks. But you think you already know, and when her next words confirm it your stomach sinks to your toes.

"Tavros needs to come with me. He's in danger here."

"What?" Tarrit no longer looks upset—who cares about the scrawny orphan boy who steals the village's precious resources?—just surprised. However, the Rogue doesn't even answer him; she just turns and pins you down with her catlike green eyes.

"You understand, don't you." It's not a question. "You know why you need to come with me."

You do know. You think. After the Bard's conversation with her, there isn't much to guess about what she has assumed. You just don't believe it, and you certainly don't want to say it, but the Rogue won't look away until you answer.

"You think I'm a Hero." You flinch at your own words, as if the syllables themselves were treason. They might as well be. Behind the Rogue, you see Tarrit go pale.

The Rogue, however, merely quirks her mouth up at your word choice, and again you're reminded that she's been Asleep for so long—she has no idea what the world is like, what kind of fear the word "Hero" sparks in the land's cowed citizens. "I don't think anything. I _know_." She laughs a little. "In case you've forgotten, I happen to be a Rogue—"

"Please stop calling yourself that," you whisper, struck again with the irrational thought that the Lord will hear the treasonous talk, but the Rogue ignores you.

"—and I've been finding and training Heroes since before this town even _existed._ I know a Potential when I see one."

This is a nightmare. Tarrit is already backing away from you as if you were poison, and you know you will be the pariah of Taurius by nightfall. Even if you had the courage to turn away the Rogue, the citizens of the village you just helped save will never accept you again. You want to scream at her, deny this…this _Potential_, but all you can do is shake your head helplessly.

Then her next words make your blood run cold. "And I'm not the only one who can spot a Potential—I'd bet my cat's claws that Gamzee could feel it too. I mean, hell—pardon the language—but you're practically shining with Potential."

You can barely speak right now. "He…he t-t-told us that he w-wouldn't…wouldn't…" He said he wouldn't tell the Lord about the Rogue. And for some reason, you believe him—in fact, the idea of reporting her or you seems strange.

The Rogue clearly does not agree. "I trust that Bard about as far as I can throw him—and since he's one of the fastest suckers I've ever met I've never been able to get my hands on him. You need to leave before he shows up with a liege of soldiers or a bounty that would make Lady Luck weep with envy."

"I…I'm not a Hero," you whisper. Dimly, you notice that Tarrit is quietly disappearing back into the town, and irrationally you think, _They've already abandoned me. _"I cant…I'm a s-servant of the Lord, I d-don't want to cause trouble, _I'm not a Hero_—" Heroes are illegal. Going on this path will kill you—and it already looks like you're on it.

The Rogue gives you a kind smile. Despite her height, and her feline face, she almost looks motherly to you in that moment. "You're not a Hero _now_. But that's what I'm here for! You have Potential, Tavros, and wasting it here just to fulfill the wishes of some delusional man is ridiculous. More importantly, it's dangerous, to you and this town. I'd hate to see these people get trampled on more than they already have, and from what I'm gathering this "Lord" doesn't like new Heroes."

Maybe the Rogue is right. Whether or not you have real…potential…if the Rogue saw it, and the Bard saw it, then things could get bad. You look over at the now-quiet town, the place you've lived near all your life. You've never known anywhere else—you can't imagine what life is like beyond the ever-changing wildlands Taurias sits on. The village almost disappeared today. It could again, and the idea of your presence being the cause makes your stomach turn.

And, despite all the problems she has just brought you, there is no malevolence on the Rogue's face. You can tell, instinctively, that all she wants to do is help—and the way things are looking, everyone is safer if you accept it.

"Okay," you say. Your throat is so tight, it comes out as a whisper. "Um. I'll come with you. I mean, I don't think I have much of a—" Your words are cut off when the Rogue grabs you and wraps you in a tight embrace, choking off your air. It's only for a second though—when she releases you, you're able to gulp in a huge breath and find your voice again.

"This is so exciting!" Her bright green eyes and wide grin suddenly make her look like a child, and you regret your decision almost immediately. "It's been _ages_ since I've taught someone properly! I can't wait—I wonder what you are—a knight, I'd usually imagine since they're so common, but you have so much Potential waiting in you I can't help but wonder if you're something stronger, like a Prince or a—"

You tune her out as she continues on, having less to no clue as to what she is talking about. You'll wonder if she'll ever explain her words, and what else you'll learn from her—if you learn anything before the Lord catches up with the two of you and kills you both.

For now, all you know is that she's leading you to the world beyond your town, and you have no choice but to follow.

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**A/N: The next update will, at best, be up by the end of next month. No promises though, it's not even started. :( I'm so sorry! Once the semester is done, I'll be able to focus on this more, but at the moment I have a lot of schoolwork to juggle as well.**

**Still, please give any feedback you can muster up! Reading all of your reviews really helps motivate me, and I love hearing what you guys think. Till next time!**


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